


tall tales

by brodayhey



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hair Braiding, Lies, M/M, Middle-earth POC, Pre-War of the Ring, Uncle Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5823004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodayhey/pseuds/brodayhey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a winter evening, Frodo Baggins asks his uncle to tell him a story about a dwarven king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tall tales

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/gifts).



The Shire had gotten it’s annual covering of snow, and a sort of hush covered the land. That is, until the young hobbits from the four farthings saw the white blanket that had covered their roofs during the night. Frodo Baggins, though a little too old for running about in the cold for hours on end, had still thoroughly tuckered himself out. The numerous Gamgee children, as well as some young niece who had been visiting old Daddy Twofoot, had caused quite the ruckus on and around the Hill. They had been well-mannered for the better part of the day, disregarding the loud peals of laughter whenever one child fell face-first into the slush. Once the snowball fight started a little bit after luncheon, however, most of the older and more mature occupants of Bagshot Row and the surrounding residences were ready for the faunts and tweens to quit their play and come inside from the cold. Peace was valued greatly in the Shire, and a hobbit who had almost one hundred and three years under his belt could only take so much shrieking.

Bilbo Baggins found he could forget the noisiness of the day with the peacefulness of evening that came afterwards. He smoked his pipe-weed in a short clay pipe and relished the fact that he was spending the night with company. Frodo was seated at Bilbo’s feet, allowing his uncle to pick out all the knots he had acquired while running about in the chill. He whined when the comb got caught on particularly bad snarls, but he was being a good sport about it all. He did not even protest when Bilbo began to play with his hair after all the knots were out. Frodo just picked up a book of poems and let his uncle braid his thick, curly hair against his head.

“Uncle Bilbo,” said Frodo, some time later. Bilbo’s pipe had long since burned out, and Frodo had given up on the poems in favor of looking at his uncle. He hadn’t seemed to notice his pipe was cold, and he continued to puff on the thing. Nonetheless, his face was still lit by candlelight and the warm glow from the hearth. Bilbo was a bit of an enigma to Frodo. He had lived with him for a little over three years now, and he knew all his little habits, like the songs he sang as he got ready in the mornings, or how he wanted his porridge to be fixed.

His character was harder to read. He seemed a sturdy Baggins, just like the portrait of Bungo above the hearth and Frodo’s vague memories of his own father. Yet there was something off about him. There was something that did not fit the image he wished to put off. He sat in his home all day, smoking a pipe and reading, but he read histories and epics of the Big Folk rather than almanacs or planting schedules. He cooked and bought up things extravagantly for holidays, but they were for strange and foreign holidays like the Elvish New Year, or Durin’s Day. He went on strolls down Shire paths, but only on his way to meet hooded dwarves and weather stained Rangers along the Great East Road. He wore his hair up in scarves or in many-stranded braids not typical of Shire-folk.

The strangest part of his uncle, to be sure, was his face. It was not that it was darker than most Fallohides, further browned than usual from his long strolls in the sun. Some of Frodo’s cousins in Westfarthing were even darker, spending so much time on the Water. It was not even the small scar notched in his eyebrow from that battle he swore he had fought in all those decades ago. The thing Frodo found most mysterious was that Bilbo’s face never changed. It was common to hear other hobbits complaining about this, especially those of the same age that had not aged so gracefully. Frodo had only known his cousin for a few years and he had not the long memory of older folks like Hamfast Gamgee, but he knew with certainty that Bilbo had not gained a single wrinkle for at least a decade. Well-preserved was an understatement. Frodo sometimes wondered if it was some sort of dwarven or elvish magic that Bilbo got from those long scrolls and thick tomes he was always perusing. The only thing about Bilbo that ever seemed old were his eyes. His face had been frozen in middle-age for decades, but his eyes had not. They always seemed tired, even though he usually went to bed before the Sun even went down. One could say they were haunted. That is, if any hobbits ever got into any situations that would leave them haunted.

“What is it?” asked Bilbo. “Are you about to tell me why you’ve been ogling me for the past few minutes?"

“You noticed?” Frodo tugged on one of the braids Bilbo had just put into his hair, embarrassed.

“You weren’t being very discreet about it,” Bilbo confirmed. “Now, what’s so interesting about my face? My big nose?” He thumbed at Frodo’s as he said it.

Frodo, firmly in his tween years, felt himself above the age of having his nose tweaked, but he laughed all the same. “It’s not that,” he said. He searched Bilbo’s countenance for something he could remark upon in his next statement. He could not necessarily tell his uncle that he was just marvelling at how strange he found his face. “I was thinking about… your earrings. And the bracelets you wear around your wrists. They don’t look very Shire-like.”

“You are certainly right about that! Not Shire-like at all, I would hope. They are from Erebor, a place far to the East. You know, they were a gift from a _king_ ,” he said.

“You know a king?” Frodo asked.

“Yes, of course! I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before,” said Bilbo. “In fact, I’ve been known to talk about that time of my life a great deal more than necessary. But I am so forgetful these days, and perhaps I never told you about him. He was a dwarf, and he was a king for a time. He gave me these earrings, along with other things. I wear them to remember him, and all that I went through for him.”

“Could you tell me about him?”

Bilbo thought for a moment, and watched Frodo’s face. He pursed his lips and considered his tale. He sighed and eventually said, “Why don’t I tell you another story? It is just as interesting, and much happier. I think it is an evening for pleasant stories.”

“That would be fine,” Frodo said. “You can tell me whatever story you would like.”

“Very well.” Bilbo smiled. “You might as well get comfortable, for it is a rather long one.”

“What is it about?”

“It is a love story.”

 

* * *

 

A lonely hobbit, (began Bilbo), was once quite comfortable with his loneliness. His smial was not filled with family, or noise, or much cheer, but it was still his home, and he resided there all the same. He had lived there for many years on his own, and that was just fine. He had a large family, and a very kind gardener, and a few hobbits he spoke with whenever he was on a walk or stopping by an inn for a drink. The fellow had never been really close with anyone, but he was fine with it. He had never taken any long-lived lovers, or felt the need for a wife. He had become worn-out and solidly comfortable along with his hole and all his belongings, and the hobbit was perfectly content in spending the rest of his days living life as it was expected of him. At least, that is what he would say if anyone asked him.

Wizards love entering lives like that and cocking it all up, of course. And the one wizard that our little fellow got mixed up with did a tremendous job of it. He walked into the Shire one morning and ruined the peaceful life the hobbit had built so carefully over the decades. But then, perhaps it had not been built so carefully: it only took one dinner party and musical performance, and that was enough to convince the fellow to leave his life and go on an adventure. This hobbit soon found himself in the middle of a quest.

It was a quest to reclaim a kingdom from a dragon, and the fellow found himself in the midst of thirteen dwarves and a wizard. And all on ponyback! Most uncomfortable. He had only ever read about adventures, and most never turned out well. Even so, the hobbit came along, pack not fully stocked and without a walking stick or kerchief. He had agreed to go with the dwarves, and he was a hobbit of his word. It was a good thing indeed for his dwarven company that he was. For if it was not for him, it is doubtful their quest would ever have succeeded.

On his journey he met with folk good, as well as folk that weren’t as good. He met Lords of Elves, Dwarves, Men, and even Eagles. He was captured by goblins, but came out of the ordeal stronger, wiser, and much hungrier than he had been before. He travelled across half of Middle-earth on his own sturdy feet. He won battles with words, as well as swords. He won a magic ring, and exchanged names and riddles with a dragon. He made friends with those secretive dwarves, and acquainted himself with their traditions, their passions, as well as their grudges. He met a giant-shapeshifter, and sneaked through caves great palaces of stone to deliver his friends. And he found love along the way: a dwarf-lord, blessed with strength and courage and a silver tongue. He got caught up in situations much bigger than any Shireling should have, but he managed just fine. Until there came something more destructive than wolves, spiders, and even dragons.

A battle. Our hobbit found himself on the brink of a great fight between the Free Folk. The dwarves’ quest had succeeded, thanks to him, but their victory was about to be tried with swords and arrows and horn-calls. He tried his best to stop the fight, but it is almost impossible to turn the tides, and even harder to sway the mind of a proud dwarf. The little hobbit himself, however, found a way. For there was a precious stone within the Mountain, more valuable than the whole treasure hoard of the dwarves combined.

He gave it to the Elves and Men who were threatening the Mountain as ransom, so they would give up the fight. As the ordeal occurred, many thought Thorin, as rightful possessor of the Lonely Mountain’s treasure hoard, would resent the hobbit for taking his greatest prize. But the love the dwarf held overcame any greed he might have had for the gem. Then, it seemed that all would be well for the dwarves and for the hobbit, but their peace and happiness was threatened once again. From the North, an army of goblins descended upon the Mountain, wanting the stronghold for their own, and desiring revenge against Thorin’s Company. For they were the goblins that had captured the group early on in the quest, and they were upset with the loss of their prisoners, and the killing of some of their host as they escaped.

The fight was long, and for a while it seemed all was lost, but eventually good triumphed over the bad, and the goblins were all killed or driven off back to their dark holes in the Misty Mountains. This did not come without the deaths of many of the Free Folk, but it was still a time of victory for those that still lived. And against all odds, and with help from friends, all the dwarves as well as the hobbit came out relatively unscathed. The hobbit had a few scars, and the hair on his feet never quite grew back the same way, but he was still alive, and he still had the dwarf who he loved.

 

* * *

 

“What did he look like?” asked Frodo.

“Hm?” Bilbo, with a great deal of effort, pulled himself out of his story. “Who?”

“The dwarf, what does he look like?”

“Oh, let’s see what I remember. He was tall for a dwarf. It made him quite the intimidating sight for a hobbit that barely reached three feet. His skin was dark and wrinkled, and his nose was long and prominent. He was reaching old age for a dwarf, which did not come for many years for that race. He had lines around and bags beneath his eyes, creases on his brow, and had he not a great beard on his chin, you could have seen lines around his full mouth.”

“Do all dwarves have beards?”

“They do,” confirmed Bilbo. “All of them do, even their young ones. The dwarves on the quest were Longbeards, so you can imagine what theirs looked like. The dwarf the hobbit fell in love with had a spectacular one, long and dark. It was liberally streaked with silver, and strung with pretty gems and nearly long enough to tuck into his golden belt. You couldn’t see his hair, as it was dwarvish fashion to leave it up in scarves or to tuck it up into hoods— Thorin had one that was blue, like the sky and the color of his eyes. It had a long silver tassel, and he cared immensely for it. Metal glittered in his ears, around his neck and wrists, and on his fingers. When he was deep in thought, or embarrassed, he tugged on the chain around his throat.”

“Thorin is a strange name.”

“Did I say his name was Thorin? Well, he would think your name was strange too. Your name means wisdom, but he would still smile at it. I think his name fits him, strong and proud. But he could be soft, he was not always confident and commanding. He liked pet names and to hold hands, and to play songs on the harp and sing in his deep voice. He went to great lengths to look serious and leader-like, but when he smiled, his whole face lit up. And then you realized that many of the lines on his forehead and around his eyes weren’t from age, or squinting into the light of a forge, but from smiling and laughing.” Bilbo pushed his hair off his forehead and smiled. “He was beautiful.”

“And the hobbit?”

“What about him?”

“What did he look like?”

Bilbo paused with his mouth open. “Why do you need to know?” he asked.

“I like to picture stories in my head. You are good at at telling the stories, uncle, but you don’t go very far into descriptions.”

“To give you more room with your imagination, my boy.” He crossed his legs and smoothed down the curling hair on his legs and feet. Quietly, to himself, he said, “And some things need to be kept private, perhaps.” They sat in silence for a few moments. Frodo, curious as he was, broke it to ask his question again.

“So what was he like?”

“Well, he was like most hobbits. So he had dark hair, brown skin, and a smiling mouth. He was sturdy and solid, like his father before him. He was fond of all his comforts, especially well-aged wine and pipe-weed. His feet were large and thickly thatched with hair, and he wore a braid and beads in his hair. His nose was sharp, and his eyes green. He usually wore a cloak and hood of the same color.”

“Is that it?”

“Do you need more detail?”

“What was his name?”

“Oh, this hobbit went by many names. He was Ring-wearer, and Luck-wearer, and they called him the Fly Who Stings the Spider, Clue-finder, Web-cutter, Barrel-rider—”

“But his given name, what was that?”

“We can call him Master Underhill, how about that?”

“It’s a good hobbit name,” said Frodo. “And you can go on now, if you like. You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to, uncle.”

 

* * *

 

The battle was won, and while the beginning of their romance was fraught with peril and all sorts of interesting and dangerous things, Thorin and Master Underhill were able to enjoy peace. Compared to their life during the quest, things could be considered absolutely boring. They had to make peace with their neighbors, and rebuild a kingdom that had been ravaged by a dragon, but that was nothing compared to being captured by goblins or chased down a mountain by wolves. They were in an era of peace, and though the hobbit’s home waited back to the West, he would not dare think of going back when he had someone who loved him by his side, a new family found in his quest companions. He had left things quite unresolved when he first left the Shire, but he did not have to bother going back and fixing things. His home had once meant everything to him. All his belongings and family heirlooms had seemed more important than anything else. His hole had been made especially for his mother and her future children, after all, and before he went on his quest he would never dream of abandoning it. And sometimes he missed his homeland, but being married to a king who loved him more than all the gold inside his Mountain made up for the loss.

He was very lucky to have Thorin love him the way he did. He could picture easily what could have happened, had the dwarf not agreed to lose the King’s Jewel. Thorin could have abandoned him. He could have been tossed right out of the Mountain, from the front gate or from the high ramparts, had Thorin been cruel. And even though he had forgiven the hobbit, the battle still could have harmed them more than it did. One of them could have been killed, or severely hurt. They could have sustained a wound that left them between life and death for months. They could have been hurt so badly that they fell into a sleep they never woke up from. Yes, the hobbit was lucky to have his fate unfold in such a way, but he was called Luck-wearer for a reason. He and Thorin were together, and the could-bes and what-ifs did not matter in the face of that.

The love between the two only grew as time stretched on. The dwarf and the hobbit ruled the Mountain kingdom together, and they governed with strength and compassion. There was no war under them, and no conflict from their subjects inside the kingdom. Weak qualities of each were made strong with the other by his side. Thorin’s pride was softened by the hobbit, and he was able to be humble when forging alliances with his neighbors and far away realms. The hobbit’s indecisiveness was gone once he was reminded of his surety of his love for his king. He could make difficult decisions, and was congratulated on his effort by all those who knew him.

 

* * *

 

“You said, Bilbo, that Thorin and Underhill’s lives after the quest could be considered absolutely boring.”

“I did, Frodo-lad.”

“I don’t want to be cruel,” the younger hobbit said, “but you were a correct, a bit. Don’t storytellers usually end things when they are happiest? Can I hear more about dragons, or maybe goblins. That all sounded very interesting.”

“Those things were all interesting enough, but I prefer when everyone in a story lives on happy, until the end of their days. The trouble can make the peace seem even sweeter, but I’d like to dwell on the contentment, if you don’t mind, Frodo-lad. Allow a hobbit to dream of how life could have happened.”

“Isn’t this just a story? Can’t you imagine whatever you wish and make it so?”

Bilbo shook his head. “It would be a kinder world if that were true,” he said.

 

* * *

 

The hobbit began each day with a smile on his face, now. Hobbits were not meant to live under stone, but he was as comfortable as anything. He lived in rooms filled with soft things, cushions and furs and woven cloths on the stone walls in green and yellow. He read his favorite books, and smoked weed from his own country, drank wine from places far South he had never heard of. Dwarves are secretive and wary of strangers, but Bilbo was not a stranger anymore. He learned all their traditions and their ways, and they taught him that language that had been kept private for ages on end. That does not mean he lost himself, and his hobbit ways.

Dwarves valued skills in fighting and in strategy, and though the hobbit had a little bit in the former, due to his time on the quest, he preferred his peaceful ways. Whenever Thorin could be practicing with his sword or his war-hammer in the evenings, his consort could be found in their rooms, annotating or copying down a manuscript with watered-down ale close at hand. He would ask Thorin to sing old Shire songs in his rumbling voice, rather than those deep dwarvish tunes he usually sang while they were getting ready for bed. Dwarves only ate two or three meals a day, but he had kept up with the Shire tradition of having as many as six.

Sometimes the hobbit wondered what would have happened if the whole dynamic was reversed. Thorin would have come to the Shire, and learned to be like a hobbit. He would take off his heavy boots, and wear his hair loose around his shoulders. His brown skin could be further darkened by the Sun, and he would see more of the sky that matched the color of his eyes so well. He would eat simple meals, but several of them in a day, and he would grow soft around his middle. He would be comfortable, and he would not have to hold the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders. His harshest task would be shoveling snow off of the path that led to Bagshot Row, or perhaps washing dishes after a party. He would not have to fight. Thorin could be at peace, and he would have someone who loved him at his side, no matter what happened. And not much could happen, in the Shire. They would be comfortable, and Thorin and the hobbit could grow into their old ages together.

Life in the Mountain was not bad, however. The hobbit was happy there. He could be happy anywhere, with Thorin at his side. And that was not just an empty sentiment: he had found happiness while starving in an enchanted forest, wracked by coughing and sneezes in a damp old town on a lake, and starving on the bare rocks of a mountainside, (he had experienced a great deal of starvation over the course of his quest), all because he had Thorin next to him. The kind of love he had did not depend on any variables, on any outside source. His love was constant, and he would love Thorin no matter how many miles or years separated them. And being consort to the King Under the Mountain was not a bad thing at all. He could have all he ever wanted.

He could dress sumptuously, in heavy fabrics shot with silver and gold, in soft and thick furs that draped across his shoulders, making him seem broader than he really was. He wore shining chains strung with gems around his neck, and nets of gold on the crown of his head. He looked quite the part of a dwarf, with the exception of a beard. Thorin offered him bangles to go around his ankles, rings to go on his fingers, scarves crusted with stones and embroidery around their edges to wrap about his hair. He had never worn such things before, but he felt beautiful in them. And Thorin insisted that he was, and would gift him more jewelry just to see how I looked in it, how it glittered in the torchlight and reflected in the green of my eyes.

 

* * *

 

“My eyes.” Bilbo stopped. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and brushed at his eyes. He turned his head away from Frodo and the firelight for a while. He almost curled into himself, feeling the young hobbit’s gaze on his back. Now, he was a mature hobbit, more mature than most at his count of years. But he felt raw and exposed, like a child, digging up emotions from five decades ago that he should have left alone. He put his face in his hands, and shook his head.

“Give me a moment, Frodo-lad,” he said shakily. “That’s all I need, a moment.”

Bilbo heard the vague sounds of Frodo standing up, and moving around the room. He just sat and gritted his teeth, willing away the dampness of his eyes. He started when he felt small hands on the back of his neck. He stayed rigid until he realized what his nephew was doing: unraveling his braid, unstringing the beads from the strands that hung from his temples. Frodo was repaying the favor from earlier that evening. Bilbo did not have many snarls in his hair, but it was a comfort to have the comb against his scalp, the fall of his hair against his shoulders and back once he got to the end of the length. His dark hair became smooth and free of knots quickly, but Frodo kept up the motion, realizing that it was helping Bilbo calm down.

“What really happened?” he asked.

“Don’t believe any of what I just told, then?” Bilbo replied. “Am I such a bad storyteller?”

“Well, you are Master Underhill, it really seems like. You said ‘Bilbo’, and ‘my eyes’. But you are not the husband of a king, or living in a mountain full of dwarves.”

“No,” said Bilbo. “But I appreciate you allowing an old hobbit his fancy. It is always nice to think of what could have been.”

“Thorin was real, then?”

“He certainly was.”

“And you loved him?”

“I did,” Bilbo said. He did not say anymore, feeling his voice rising up in a sob. He took a few deep breaths and continued. “I think I still do, sometimes. Fifty years, it’s been. And perhaps it is because I have been so lonely these past few years, or maybe I am reaching those last years of my life where I am plagued by reminiscing; but I think about him often. He touched my life deeply. But you don’t have to listen to this aged fellow ramble. Perhaps you would like to go to bed?”

“I can listen to you, uncle. What really happened?”

“Surely I’ve told you this all before? I’m surprised you did not call me on my bluff earlier. The whole stone business I described, with the Arkenstone, as it is called, went much worse than in my tale. Thorin was held captive by a sickness of the mind, and it made him covetous of all gold and other precious things. When I told him that I had given away the King’s Jewel for ransom, he was sorely angry with me. He held me by neck off the Front Gate of the Lonely Mountain, shaking me vigorously. He insulted me, my family, and threatened my life. I was banished from his kingdom, for life.”

“You still love him after all that?”

“He was ill,” Bilbo told Frodo. “I can’t blame him for what he did while he was sick.”

Frodo nodded, seeing sense in what his cousin was saying. He stopped combing his hair, and began to plait it into his regular braid. “Is that how it ended?” he asked. “You were banished, and had to return to the Shire?”

“Oh, no, that battle I spoke of happened. And Thorin did not come out of the thing unscathed: he received his death blow, and died a few hours after the battle was done.” Bilbo sat in his chair, and looked down at his feet. “I was the recipient of his last words. He praised me for my bravery, and for all those soft things that hobbits enjoy so much. He wanted to part with me in friendship.”

“If you loved him, why do you sound satisfied with his last words being in the spirit of friendship?”

“I am just happy, I suppose, that he wanted me by his side as he returned to his Maker. I was the last thing he wanted to see; not gold, no gems, no war trophies that he had won from any dead goblins. He wanted me, and that’s enough.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo,” said Frodo. “I did not mean to make you feel terribly. And you did not have to speak of what makes you so sad.”

“It is good to get rid of those foul feelings,” Bilbo told his nephew. “The future I could have had with Thorin would have been wonderful, and I could have been very happy. But if I had not returned to the Shire, I would not have been able to meet you and take you in. And that’s even better, I think.”

“You don’t mean that,” Frodo smiled.

“I do. I do not know if I could have stayed happy with Thorin for over fifty years. That is a long time for a romance, for love to last, and I could never be sure of that. But Frodo, I am completely confident that the joy you bring me won’t be dulled by the passage of the years. You are a special lad. You have been a part of my life for only three years, and you have already made me happier than I have been in a very long time.”

Bilbo kept his back turned for a moment, and left Frodo a short time to grin at the back of his head. Bilbo did twist back around after a bit, sitting forward in his chair once again. His eyes were a little red from his tears, and his sharp nose was running a bit.

“That is very kind, uncle,” said Frodo. “I am very happy living with you, as well.”

“Good lad,” said Bilbo. “Now, I’ll go get a pinch of pipe-weed from my snuff box, and you can go pick a proper book. We can read through a chapter or two, and then you can go get to bed. You’ll need a few more hours of sleep to be ready for another long day in the snow, yes?”

“Yes,” Frodo agreed with a smile.

Bilbo watched Frodo leave the room, probably to go to the bookshelf in his own room. It would take him a little bit to pick out a good book: he had several favorites. He had some time. With the boy gone, he allowed himself to bow his head and give himself over to grief.

**Author's Note:**

> Fishy requested a bit of writing based around her MEPoC Bagginshield designs, and who am I to refuse? This was a lot of fun to write. Many thanks to Fishy for letting me mess around with this Bilbo (and sort of Thorin)  
> To picture her Bilbo and Thorin better, I highly recommend checking her out on tumblr at fishfingersandscarves. Her art is great and the designs are a lot of fun!  
> Thanks for reading :^)


End file.
